eneer. The nearer to real
life you get, the nearer to hell. And yet I don't know; the same fires
burn in the west, although they are more carefully hidden from view."

"You have visited other parts of England?"

"Yes, visited."

"And how did the other parts strike you?"

"Still hell, but duller."

Herbert Briarfield looked towards Signor Ricordo with a kind of nervous
laugh. Even yet he did not know how to regard him.

"I agree with your--what do you call him?--Dr. Johnson. When he was
asked where he would rather live in the summer, he said, 'On the whole,
London.' 'And where in the winter?' asked his questioner. 'Ah, in
winter,' he said, 'there is no place else. Yes, London is interesting.'"

"What impressed you most in London?" asked Briarfield, for want of a
better question.

Ricordo hesitated a second.

"The friendliness of the waiters, I think," he replied.

All three burst out laughing.

"Good," said Herr Truebner. "Ah, it is true, true. A man walks London
streets and never meets a friend; but let him go into a restaurant, and
the waiters take him into their confidence immediately."

"And did you visit our national institutions while in London?"

"Yes, I worked very hard. I saw everything. East, west, north, south, I
went everywhere--everywhere. I wanted to see, to understand."

"And your impressions?"

"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"

"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"

"The east."

"Why?"

"Because the people are so much happier."

"You are joking."

"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to
the places of amusement, I watched the people's faces. In the west I
paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around
me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments
they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they
suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid
sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah!
they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they
applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable
West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay
thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of titillating people's
palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined
in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah,